And why did that seem so wrong?
She put the legal pad facedown on the couch and left the parlor, taking her coffee cup back to the kitchen. Not because she needed the caffeine, but because she simply needed to move. Her restlessness drove her to move about the house aimlessly with another cup of coffee, until she was drawn to a front window by the crunch of gravel.
The Jeep was leaving—with two men inside. The doctor friend was apparently taking Marc somewhere. For the first time Josie wondered where Marc’s car was. Surely he hadn’t been out here without a car?
When the Jeep was gone, she felt unexpectedly lonely. Even when Marc hadn’t been with her, she had been aware of his nearness just across the garden in the cottage, and apparently she’d gotten used to it during the last week. Only a week…
She got a grip on herself. What time was it? A little after noon. Lunch first, and then she’d study the last couple of chapters of Luke Westbrook’s biography and try to figure out what he wanted of her.
It was around four that afternoon that Josie’s phone rang, startling her. The phone number here was unlisted, and she’d given it only to the school where she’d taught in case they needed to get in touch. Then she reminded herself that Marc undoubtedly knew the number, and besides, it was probably just somebody misdialing.
“Hello,” Marc replied cheerfully to her guarded hello. “Have you missed me?”
She considered pretending she didn’t know it was he, but discarded that for the next best thing. “Oh, have you been gone? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Now you’ve cut me to the quick,” he said, nonetheless sounding completely unperturbed. “In fact, I’m so hurt I just may take back my offer.”
“What offer?”
“Chinese takeout. I’ll be leaving Richmond shortly, and thought I’d bring home Chinese takeout. But that was before you insulted me.”
“Touchy, aren’t you?”
“Sensitive: The word is sensitive.”
“I suppose you want me to apologize?”
“I am,” he said, “willing to forgive.”
“Well…”
“Waiting patiently to forgive.”
Trying not to laugh, Josie said, “I’m terribly sorry I didn’t notice you were gone today.”
Silence. Then, Marc said, “That lacked something.”
“Oh? Like what?”
He sighed. “Anything to stroke my ego.”
“Was that what you wanted? I thought you just wanted an apology.”
“Do you want Chinese takeout?” he demanded awfully.
She caved in. “I’m sorry. Really and truly sorry. And, actually, I noticed you were gone all day. I even noticed you leaving. In a nice Cherokee with someone I presumed was your doctor friend.”
Gratified, he said, “Do I hear a longing for egg rolls in that dulcet voice?”
It was Josie’s turn to sigh. “You’re an evil man. Don’t forget those little things with the crab meat and cheese inside.”
“No Chinese meal would be complete,” Marc told her solemnly, “without those little things with the crab-meat and cheese inside. I should be there between six and seven. Good enough?”
“I’ll be here.”
“One day,” he said casually, “I’ll tell you what it means to me that you’re there. See you soon.”
Josie listened to the dial tone for a moment, then cradled the receiver. How was it possible, she wondered dimly, that a few words spoken casually could make her go hot and then cold with strange, shivery sensations she’d never felt before? And, dammit, why did she want to cry?
Slowly, she went back to the couch where she’d been making notes on a fresh legal pad. Notes about Luke Westbrook’s death and the months leading up to it.
“Mmaaarrc?”
“Yes, he’s coming home,” Josie replied absently. Then she looked at the cat, who was sitting squarely in the middle of the coffee table, and frowned. “Stop doing that. I know you can’t possibly be saying his name, but stop it.”
“Yaaah,” Pendragon agreed amiably.
“I wonder if this is what he meant about you doing uncatlike things. Have you been talking to him, cat? Have you been saying my name to him?”
Pendragon blinked and sort of murmured a little sound that had no discernible meaning.
Josie rubbed her forehead fretfully, then shrugged the matter off. Talking cats. What would be next? Not mysteriously moving keys, anyway, not if she had anything to say about it. She fished the little brass key from the pocket of her flannel shirt and stared at it. Since last night, the blasted thing hadn’t been out of her possession. She’d put it under her pillow while she slept and had been carrying it around all day.
But what did it mean?
She looked at the notes she’d made, and they were just as unhelpful. According to his publisher, Luke Westbrook had exhibited no signs of depression in the months before his death. Oh, he’d been moody, sure, but no more than was usual for him. Secretive about the manuscript he’d said he was working on, and that was normal too. For him. He’d been a secretive man in many areas of his life.
The police had found the ashes of burned papers in the fireplace of the front parlor, enough for a good-sized manuscript; his publisher verified the fact that he was in the habit of burning anything he was displeased with. Forensic techniques then had not been much to shout about; the ashes had been sifted to look for unburned pages, but none had been found. Luke had been thorough in his destruction.
He had, apparently, shot himself through the left temple with a handgun from the collection he’d kept in his study. Had, apparently, fallen backward; he’d been found with his head on the hearth, the gun inches from his fingers. The police had been satisfied that the wound was self-inflicted, and Luke had left a suicide note.
His biographer had reproduced the note, verbatim, and Josie opened the book to read it as she had read it already several times. It certainly sounded like the last gasp of a deeply disturbed man, she thought. Rambling, disjointed sentences that attempted to explain why he couldn’t live if he couldn’t write. Why he couldn’t trade on past glory. Why his life was so obviously worthless. Self-pity and paranoia. Bursts of irrational rage directed at a mysterious “they” who had “fed like parasites” off the work he had produced.
Josie found that part of the note particularly jarring.
Who were “they”? His publisher? Critics? That didn’t make sense. As the biographer noted, his contracts had been fair from the beginning and lavish toward the end when his sales had climbed into the stratosphere. Luke had certainly never complained publicly—or privately as far as anyone could say. As for critics, they had adored his work; not even his first book had been trashed, as first books often were.
The police had noted the apparently groundless accusations and had shrugged. The man was unbalanced, of course—why expect his suicide note to make sense?
The biographer had, sadly, accepted this wisdom. He quoted Dryden. “Great wits are sure to madness near allied.” Luke’s genius had finally driven him over the edge. It had been known to happen.
Josie pursed her lips at that, as she had the first time she’d read the biographer’s sad conclusion. Well…maybe. Though creative genius had been known to manifest peculiarities throughout history, Josie couldn’t recall many writers who’d gone that way. Drank themselves to death, yes. Even killed themselves with guns and the like—but out of depression, not actual madness.
The letter read like madness.
She brooded about it for a while, but arrived at no satisfactory conclusion. It must have been suicide, despite her doubts. There was certainly no reason to suspect anything else. No indication that Luke hadn’t been alone that final night. Neighbors, admittedly not close by, had heard nothing suspicious. Luke’s brother—Marc’s grandfather—had discovered the body the following afternoon when he’d come to visit.
And…was any of that important?
Absently checking her watch, Josie saw
that it was after five. Between six and seven, he’d said. For no reason she was willing to explain to herself, she decided to take another shower and change clothes.
She took the key with her, hanging it on the shower nozzle and looking at it from time to time, once while shampoo was in her eyes. Afterward she dried herself and the key, then took it with her into the bedroom to dry her hair. Then, deciding that enough was enough, she put the key in her jewelry box and closed the lid.
“There. See if you get out of that.” For good measure, just in case Pendragon was responsible for the key moving merrily about the house, she put the jewelry box in the top drawer of the dresser underneath her lingerie. See if it got out of that.
She left her hair loose rather than confined in its usual braid, and brushed it until it shone in the lamplight of the bedroom. After another quick decision that she didn’t let herself think about, she put on a white satin camisole instead of a bra, not very unusual for her since she hated bras and loved silky things next to her skin. The matching panties were wispy and delicate.
Instead of her usual jeans, she pulled on a pair of brushed cotton slacks in a pale gold color, extremely soft to the touch and very close fitting. And instead of her usual sloppy sweatshirt, bulky sweater, or overlarge flannel shirt, she picked out the prettiest blouse in her closet. It was cream-colored silk, with long sleeves gathered tightly at the cuffs and an open V neckline. She tucked the blouse in and wore a wide leather belt that emphasized her small waist.
Without pausing to look into the mirror because she knew she’d lose her nerve, Josie slid her feet into dorm socks—the only thing chosen for pure comfort—and left the bedroom without bothering to turn off the lamp on the nightstand.
Trying not to think too much but very conscious of how nervous she was, she went downstairs to the den. She built a fire in the fireplace and fed Pendragon when he reminded her politely that it was his suppertime. She returned to the den and stood gazing around, and frowned when she noticed the box of books pushed into the corner by the shelves.
Damn, she’d forgotten all about that.
The tape was frayed and easy to rip away, but Josie grimaced at the dust. Great—and her in a silk blouse. She didn’t bother to study the titles of the obviously old hardbound books, but quickly and gingerly placed them on the shelves. She’d look at them—and dust them—later, she decided. Right now all she wanted was for the shelves to look neat.
The empty box went back down the cellar steps, to be dealt with some other time. She got the percolator ready but didn’t plug it in, made sure there was iced tea—which she drank winter and summer—and milk.
Restlessly wandering, she turned on the front porch light. She considered bringing her radio into the den, but turned the television on instead and forced herself to sit still on the couch and stare at the news.
Pendragon leaped onto the back of the chair he had claimed as his own, made a brief catlike comment—but nothing remotely resembling a “meow,” which had yet to escape his lips—and settled down to wash up after his supper.
When gravel crunched, Josie got up, slowly, and went to the front door. When she opened it, he was already coming into the circle of light, stepping onto the porch, carrying the bag of Chinese takeout. He looked even more handsome than usual in a dark business suit with the silk tie loosened. Doing things in Richmond, obviously.
The cast was gone.
“Hi,” she said.
“Wow,” he said.
SEVEN
THEY ATE THE food casually, out of paper cartons in the den, both of them sitting on the couch. Marc had discarded his jacket and tie, and turned back the cuffs of his white shirt a couple of times; his left arm was just slightly thinner than his right, and Josie could see a pale scar beginning on his forearm and disappearing underneath the sleeve, but he used the hand and arm easily and was obviously glad to be rid of the cast.
“I knew Neil had tacked on a couple of extra weeks when he told me how long I’d have to wear the thing, just to annoy me,” he told her in a satisfied tone as they were finishing the meal and she finally asked about the cast. “He didn’t admit it, of course, but when I told him either he’d take the damned thing off or I’d find a saw and do it myself, he gave in.”
Amused, Josie said, “Maybe he just didn’t want you undoing all his hard work.”
“That’s what he said.” Marc grinned at her. “Anyway, I promised him I wouldn’t go back to work for at least two more weeks if he’d take me into Richmond, get the damned cast off, and release my car.”
“Release?”
“It was sort of being held hostage. Neil knew if I had it here, I’d drive it—probably back to Richmond—so he either bribed or blackmailed Tucker to keep it in his garage until he decided I could have it back.”
“And Tucker is—your writer friend?”
“Yeah. Tucker Mackenzie. And Neil is Dr. Neil Ferris.”
Josie’s eyes widened. “Good heavens. I’ve read Tucker Mackenzie’s books; he’s very good. And isn’t Neil Ferris a rather famous sports doctor?”
“He’s an orthopedic specialist, so he gets quite a few customers from the sports world. Plus, of course, the occasional friend smashed up on a highway.”
His rueful tone made Josie smile. “He sounds like a very good friend. Both of them, actually.”
“Yeah, they are. And both are dying to meet you, by the way.”
“Me? But—”
Marc went on as if he hadn’t heard her startled words. “To be perfectly truthful, I think Neil was less impressed by my threat than he was by my plea; I told him a man needed both arms to make love to a woman—and he agreed.”
She didn’t know what to say. From the moment she had looked at him at the front door, her nervousness had vanished; she didn’t know why and didn’t question it. All she did know was that she had never in her entire life felt so alive, and that it was because of him. Everything inside her seemed…poised somehow, waiting for something.
Marc set his glass on the coffee table and then leaned back again, watching her very intently. But he still sounded casual when he went on, “Neil’s happily married, by the way. Tucker is dangerously single, which is why you won’t be meeting him anytime soon.”
She shook her head a little, puzzled, and Marc smiled. “He could charm the devil out of both cloven hooves and two prongs of his pitchfork—and I’m not nearly sure enough of you to take that chance.”
This time Josie felt heat rise in her face. Dammit, he’s got me blushing like a teenager! “Marc, I—”
“I wish I were sure of you. I wish I could tell Tucker or any other man that this incredibly beautiful woman with hair like fire and glorious eyes that haunt my dreams didn’t care about anyone else. Didn’t notice anyone else. Just me. I wish it more than I can begin to tell you. I don’t know that. But I know you want me. And I think…you made up your mind today, didn’t you?”
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. She tried a little laugh that emerged shakily. “My mind? What has my mind got to do with it?”
“Everything.” He moved closer, but still didn’t touch her. His voice was quiet and slightly husky. “Josie, I left last night because I wanted you to have a chance to think, to be sure. I don’t want you to wake up in the morning and kick me out of your bed.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” she murmured.
“So—there is room for me?”
She nodded, slowly but without hesitation. In my bed, yes. In her mind, she stopped the answer right there, refusing to look any deeper. The part of her where the pain lay, where it took so much of her, was firmly closed off, and she wanted it to stay that way, at least for a while.
Probably, she thought, if Marc even realized she refused to allow the prospect of physical intimacy to touch her deeper emotions, he wouldn’t consider anything missing. Probably, by then, he’d be back in Richmond and would be grateful she wasn’t a clinging sort of woman. Probably, they’d even be friends after it was
over.
Probably.
He leaned toward her, his left hand lifting to brush her hair away from her temple and then cup her cheek. She felt herself quiver and knew he saw it, felt it. She couldn’t stop the reaction or hide it. She responded to his touch as if every cell in her body had been created to match him on some primitive level she could never understand.
For a moment, her dazed mind acknowledging the inevitability of her response to his slightest touch, what Josie felt was pure panic. It was too much, too intense, terrifyingly unconditional. Just desire? Oh, God, what a joke!
“Don’t.” He was closer, only a breath away, eyes darkened and heavy-lidded as they stared into hers. His face was hard with the look of control, and his voice was so deep it was nearly a growl. “Don’t be afraid of this.”
Josie didn’t know what she might have done if he hadn’t kissed her then. She might have pulled away, run away. She might have, somehow, found the strength to save herself. But once his hard, warm mouth closed over hers, she was lost.
Heat exploded inside her, rushing through her veins until even her skin burned feverishly. Her heart pounded wildly, out of control. She heard a faint moan and knew it came from her, knew that her entire body swayed toward him mindlessly. Her hands lifted, touching his chest and sliding upward, around his neck, her fingers tangling in his thick, soft hair.
Marc’s arms were around her, crushing her against him with a force that stopped just short of pain and only fed her hunger. His mouth plundered and possessed, the thrust of his tongue shattering in its raw need, and Josie responded with the same urgency.
He lifted his head at last, breathing harshly, and for a moment his eyes burned like molten silver. Then he was pulling her to her feet and, just as swiftly and easily, swinging her up into his arms.
“You shouldn’t—” Her voice was dazed, but she had to make a vague protest because she felt sure he shouldn’t be carrying her with his arm just out of a cast, for heaven’s sake, even if it did seem incredibly easy for him. “I mean—I can walk.”